


Christmas with the Deans

by neevebrody



Category: Dawson's Creek, Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: Backstory, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Holidays, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neevebrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just what the title says...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas with the Deans

**Author's Note:**

> You'll find a lot of backstory here with regard to Brendan's family, which is all totally fabricated. It's my own meta for the pairing as I write them – YMMV.

  
_Girls. You never know what they're going to think.  
Holden Caulfield, **The Catcher in the Rye**_

Christmas. Yule. The Season. The Holidays. Whatever one called it, it had been either a very up or a very down time for Brendan Dean. Much like feast or famine, boon or misfortune, yin or yang. Work usually got crazy around this time of year and sometimes family got even crazier. But this holiday, Brendan would fend off crazy like a one-armed lion tamer. 

It was unseasonable warm that December Saturday morning, something a New Yorker never really snubbed his nose at. Sweat was already gathering under the folds where Brendan's towel wrapped around his waist. He swiped his hand through the fog on the bathroom mirror once again and took a long look at himself. "I told you, we don't have to do this," he said, idly swishing his razor in the sink.

"And I told you, it's okay," Vincent replied, stepping out of the shower.

Brendan watched him through the mirror, felt his own body react to the way the water beaded on Vince's skin, slid down the curves and planes of muscles pulled taut as he dried himself.

"They'll either like me or they won't, and springing this on them isn't going to help."

"I'm not springing anything," Brendan said. "I called and – they're fine with it."

"Liar." 

Vince flung his towel over the shower door and took a step forward. Brendan felt Vince's hand at his waist. "But that's okay. What I care about most is that they respect your choices, even if they never learn to accept you for who you are." Another hand slipped around, caging Brendan's hips.

Brendan felt a little guilty for not mentioned the phone call. Vince was way too perceptive and the last thing Brendan needed was to make the weekend any more tense. He'd convinced himself that once his parents had a chance to meet Vince everything would be fine.

"I haven't brought anyone home in… not since…" He stopped and went back to his shaving, scrunching and raising his chin so he could get at his neck easily; he didn't need to say the rest out loud anyway. 

Vince knew about Suzanne. The basic facts anyway… that she and Brendan had been engaged, that Brendan had gotten cold feet and broken off the engagement scandalously close to the wedding date, and afterward, had thrown himself into his career – well, not so much into it as at it. 

Vince hummed behind him and made eye contact through the refection in the mirror. "Yeah, but there's something else bugging you," he stated. 

"I just feel… you know… parents, family."

"And you think that's going to upset me?" Vince leaned in closer, warming Brendan's bare shoulders with his body heat. "I had parents – I was raised by two of the finest people on earth, and I've spoken to my cousins – they're scattered all over the map right now. I may try to visit a few of them after Christmas, but everyone's so busy with their own lives – it just hasn't been the same since my aunt died. Just because they weren't my natural parents didn't make it any less real for me."

Brendan bent and splashed cold water over his face. "That's just what I mean," he said. He scrubbed his face with a towel, then turned to Vince. "Do you ever think about them – your real parents?"

Vince shrugged. "My dad left us. I was old enough to remember and I was glad he was gone. My mother loved that miserable fuck, and he treated her like shit. Unfortunately, she couldn't live without a man. Water – bridges, Brendan. They've never tried to contact me in all this time."

Not that the subject of their pasts came up often, but they had also had a 'just the facts' exchange about Vince's childhood. After Vincent's father left, his mother was looking for something and went from man to man trying to find it. Not a good environment for a child, and whether her motivation had been well-meaning or selfish, Vincent's mother allowed him to be adopted by her older sister and brother-in-law.

Brendan knew what a parent's disapproval felt like, knew how it was to be pitted against siblings in competition for their attention. But outright rejection, he had no concept of that. He slid his hand up to Vince's cheek as his chest grew heavier.

"Hey, I've dealt with this," Vince said softly. "It doesn't eat at me, so it shouldn't worry you." He cracked a little smile. "I miss my aunt and uncle much more."

Brendan stared into Vincent's soulful eyes. It would be so easy just to take Vince at his word. Easy because it hurt too much to think of Vince missing anything, that he might have a hole in his life he couldn't fill, that Brendan couldn't fill. 

Pulling Vince closer, he pressed in with a kiss and made a vow, just as Vince worked loose the towel around Brendan's waist. No matter what, he was going to make this the best holiday Vince had ever had, and he was going to start it off with a quick and dirty blowjob.

~~~

The drive to Pennsylvania took a little over three hours. Traffic had been murder getting out of the city and Brendan swore under his breath every time he looked at the dashboard clock. Not only was he taking Vince home to meet his family, they were late. Justifiably late – Vince had looked and tasted so good. After all, they were headed to his parents' house for the long Christmas weekend, where Brendan would be lucky to get as much as a cuddle, and, well, things happened. Hot, sweaty things that went way past blowjobs and had them taking another shower together, thus leaving the apartment much later than planned.

At least the drive in had given Brendan time to man up and prepare himself. Christ, he'd always been such a wimp where his parents were concerned. Michael was the maverick in the family, and Brendan wished like hell his older brother was going to be there. Michael's support would mean everything. He'd always told Brendan to be his own man and not worry about what their parents wanted. Michael had done that, but it had been harder for Brendan.

Michael had defied their dad and convention. Instead of a lucrative career as a civil engineer, he'd opted for the Peace Corps after college – as a break and a way to gain some practical experience. While serving a stint in Malawi, he met a like-minded South African relief worker and fell in love. Through her, he also fell in love with the work they were doing. After Michael's commitment to the Corps was up, the family had the opportunity to meet Rae briefly when she and Michael were back in the states on their way to a new relief mission. They married in South America and the next time Brendan saw his brother was at the birth of the couple's second child. 

Every turn through town brought them closer to Cleveland Street, closer to the house he'd called home for most of his life. The hairs on the back of Brendan's neck stood on end. He'd been home recently, but that never seemed to matter. There was something about coming back that made the memories start to dance. If he let them, they'd spill into his brain like an overflow, dragging along emotion for company.

Vincent must have sensed his unease, because for most of the drive, he'd been very quiet, except for the occasional whistling and singing along with Christmas songs on the radio. Vince did a wicked Bing Crosby impersonation. And it had taken Brendan almost the entire trip to realize that the sound of Vince's voice, his very presence – the knowledge that Vince was willing to walk into the lion's den with him – were the only things holding him together. He absently adjusted the rear view mirror to see if it showed.

Taking that final turn off Elm, Brendan held his breath as they pulled up to the fifth house on the right. It was a typical 1970s tri-level, one of only a few in the neighborhood built on two lots. When he was a boy, their house was kid central, mainly because of that extra lot. Football, softball, field hockey – between Brendan, his siblings, and their friends, there was always a crowd. His parents had enjoyed it almost as much, except whenever broken glass or broken bones were involved.

Sitting in front of it now, the house looked smaller than he remembered. With a heavy sigh, he ran an appraising eye over the exterior, noting several patches of peeling paint up along the eaves, and surprised his dad hadn't already taken care of them. His childhood memories were filled with pictures of his dad on ladders, in his workshop, and on the riding mower. 

Vince clapped a hand down over Brendan's thigh, making him jump. "We gonna do this?" 

Brendan nodded dully and turned in Vince's direction. That's when he noticed the steel gray, top of the line, Chrysler mini-van parked close to the garage. Shit. Cold sweat immediately began to form a ring around his neck.

"Bren? What's wrong?"

"My sister," Brendan said, nodding toward the van. "Here first, of course." He stared at the van.

"She does live two hours closer."

"No, she does shit like this on purpose."

"Whatever… you knew this was part of the package," Vince said, prying Brendan's hand from the steering wheel before opening his own door.

He did know. Throughout their childhood, everything had been a contest with him and his sister, and their parents fed their little feud by rewards or lavishing attention. Of course, they'd never meant any harm, but at the time, certain words or indifference hurt a lot more than a swat across the behind. At least Brendan remembered them more easily. He gave Vince a half-hearted smile before they both got out of the car.

"Linnie's husband can be a real jerk," said Brendan as they walked toward the front door, their arms laden with packages and overnight bags. "I'm sure Mom's already told her about you, just don't let them—"

The front door flew open and Brendan's sister strode purposefully in their direction.

"Oh shit," Brendan gusted out of the side of his mouth. The knot in his stomach tightened and rooted him to the spot. "Prepare yourse—" The rest of his words were strangled by the force of his sister's embrace and the stinging pain of her snowman earring digging into his cheek. 

"Merry Christmas, Bree," she whispered, her voice vibrating with emotion and sending a warm flurry over his ear. 

Brendan stiffened. Something was up. Linnie wasn't a hugger, at least not as far as he was concerned. But the real giveaway was the use of her childhood name for him. "What's wrong," he asked in a disinterested deadpan. Hoo boy, if the drama queen antics were going to start this early, they were in for one hell of a weekend.

She kissed his cheek before letting him go, but didn't answer him. Instead, she turned to Vincent, the sun glancing off her blonde ponytail as it swung with her. Brendan stared as she embraced Vince with another heartfelt "Merry Christmas."

Pulling back, her smile was irremovable as she announced, "I'm Lynette Markham."

"Vincent Kar—"

"I know who you are," she said, catching Brendan's eye. "Not that my brother told me, but—"

"No need to," Brendan interrupted, desperately trying to keep the little-boy petulance from his voice. "Mom probably called you the minute we hung up." 

God, how he had dreaded that call – basically asking his mother if it was okay to bring his boyfriend for Christmas. Brendan and his parents had already had the long overdue conversation. Several months before, when Vince was busy with his study group, Brendan made the decision to go down and take his parents to dinner. He stayed the night, leaving Vince the apartment to himself. After dinner, Brendan told his parents that he was seeing someone, but hadn't indicated who or how serious it was, opting instead for just coming out and telling them he was living with a man. Linnie had called the next week wanting only to know if it were true.

"I'm sure the two of you had a good time dissecting the last few years of my life," Brendan said for good measure.

It hadn't been an easy conversation; his parents had listened and tried to understand, but to say they were happy and supportive missed the mark. At least they hadn't thrown him out or stopped talking to him. Both of his parents had come from conservative, academic backgrounds, working in libraries and the public school system. His mother had quit her job working with the local Historical Society just before Linnie had been born, while his father had continued his climb up through the ranks of elementary and, later, secondary school administration. Coming out wasn't anything new to them; it was just something that happened to other people's children.

For just a second, Linnie's eyes flashed a defiant blue blaze. Often, her mood could be divined by the depth of color. Linnie Dean – the human mood ring. But the glare quickly melted away as she took the packages from Brendan's arms. "Let's get inside. The boys are dying to see you."

Since when were her boys dying to see him? As if on cue, a sock-footed, tow-headed three-year-old bounded down the front steps, followed by a slightly limping black Labrador Retriever. Brendan watched his sister chase her youngest back into the house then glanced to his side. The grin on Vincent's face was both infuriating and world-tiltingly hot at the same time. 

When the Lab caught sight of the visitors, he raised his head slowly, cocked it to the side, and sniffed the air. His tail began to wag back and forth as he started toward them at less than a trot. Poor Jack; he was getting old. The gray around his muzzle and over his left eye – the one covered by the milky-blue film – made it seem even more so.

Dropping to one knee, Brendan set down the bags and welcomed the snuffling dog the last excited steps into his arms. Jack was warm and smelled of wood shavings and something that reminded Brendan of his grandfather's bedroom slippers, an eclectic mix of Vitalis hair oil, sweat, and foot powder. He didn't have a clue why the dog should smell like that, but as he cuffed Jack beneath his muzzle and cooed at him, Brendan could see those brown leather slippers as clearly as if someone were holding them out in front of him.

By the time the three of them had reached the small porch, Brendan's mother had come to the door. She and Linnie looked to be cast from the same genetic mold, hair, eyes, cheekbones; their bearing and disposition were similar as well. Today, however, his mother's frame seemed a bit slighter than when Brendan had last seen her, but her smile needed all outdoors to contain it. And with it, Brendan felt he might have just cleared the first hurdle.

Her hug was fierce when Brendan bent to kiss her, holding on tighter and longer than usual. Finally letting go, she turned her attention, and that brilliant smile, to her guest with a warm, "Vincent, it's so good to meet you," before pulling him into what seemed to Brendan a guarded hug. When she let go, she held him out as if she were conducting an appraisal of a piece of art or historical artifact. 

It was definitely a little weird watching your Mom check out your boyfriend. Brendan's face warmed as he shifted from one foot to the other. Now he thought he understood how Linnie must have felt all those years of presenting her suitors like bugs under glass. Until she'd met Rich Markham, of course. Mr. Can-Do-No-Wrong himself.

Brendan cleared his throat. "Mom?"

"You know," she said, stepping back, little clouds of warm breath preceded her words. "I can sort of see it, I mean the shape of your head, the color of your eyes – Brendan, yours are a bit more green – but I think—"

Brendan felt the heat to the tips of his ears now. He probably should have warned Vince about mentioning the resemblance thing – even though it barely registered with them anymore. Brendan felt compelled to mention it, as bringing a man home for the family Christmas had its own shock value, he certainly hadn't wanted to add to it.

"I agree with you, Mrs. Dean, Brendan's much better looking."

Brendan started to roll his eyes until he saw the look on his mother's face. Vince always knew just what to say.

"Of course, as to other things that are similar, I…"

"Mom!" Brendan pushed past a snickering Vince into the foyer. "Where's Dad?"

"In the workshop," she whispered, then pressed her lips together and made a locking motion like turning a key. She nodded toward the family room, where loud crashes and bangs and the unmistakable sounds of superheroes doing what they do best practically shook the walls. She took the rest of their packages as Brendan set their bags on the stairs. 

"C'mon," he said to Vince, pulling a face. It was better to go ahead and get it over with. "Where's Mr. Wonderful?" he asked, passing his sister outside the kitchen. Her hands full of trays filled with her famous holiday munchies, Linnie offered him only a faint smile on her way to the dining room. 

"Wait 'til you see this," Brendan said, pushing Vince into the kitchen. He smelled the roast in the oven first, then the spices, spying three covered pie plates on the table. "Dad's shop is amazing. He's got every kind of tool you can imagine. He built a desk for me when I was in third grade that's still sitting up in—"

Vince caught Brendan's arm and pulled him in for a kiss. A quick kiss that left the taste of adrenaline in Brendan's mouth and made his heart skip a beat at the chance someone might see them. "What was that for?" he asked.

Vince smiled; a small lock of his hair lay dead center of his forehead, and Brendan's heart skipped for an entirely different reason. "So you'll stop being so damn nervous. Look at you, you're gonna jump out of your skin."

"Holy shit, Vince! I'm about to introduce my lo—my boyfrie— Shut up." Brendan shoved against him as Vincent's smile widened. He took a deep breath, noting how Vince's cologne clung to his shirt. "It's my dad… I think I'm allowed a case of the jitters."

"So far, so good," Vince said, shrugging. "How bad can it be?"  
Obviously, Vince had never spent any time with Thomas Patrick Dean.

When Brendan opened the shop door, he understood his mother's whisperings. There was his dad, bent over a wooden train station, putting on the finishing touches with a small, sponge-tipped paintbrush. His hair, the same stiff GI brush cut, seemed somewhat grayer than at their last meeting, and his back bowed a little more.

Brendan couldn't say why, but as a kid, he'd always been a little embarrassed by his father's creative talents. Like his siblings, and every other kid he knew, he thought store-bought gifts were best. Still, the other kids in the neighborhood thought it was cool that his dad could build things. Like the tree house he built for Brendan and Michael. Now, that had been awesome, but… _tree house._ How could it not be?

Of course, as he'd grown older, Brendan realized what a gift his dad's skill really was, and more importantly, that it was more than a just a hobby. His dad had tried to explain it once – the feel of the wood beneath his fingers, knowing the grains, and how relaxing it was simply to work it and craft something from a piece of plain, raw stock. It had taken Brendan a long time to fully understand what that meant to his dad. 

Seeing his dad now, like some weekend warrior DIY Santa, surrounded by the painted village, tracks, and the train station, Brendan felt an odd softness and a sudden urge to embrace him, something they hadn't shared in a long while.

Brendan pulled the door shut and took a couple of steps forward with Vince right by his side. As if he sensed their intrusion, Thomas Dean looked around and reached up to remove one of the earbuds from his ear. Brendan hoped for a smile, but there was only a quick nod to Vince and a clipped, "One minute, almost done here."

Having a gay son was a tough thing for his father to accept, Brendan got that. He did. And he'd come prepared to take whatever happened in stride, but Thomas Dean was known for his honesty. Like if you looked up honesty on Wikipedia, link number four would be a picture of Brendan's dad. What Brendan wasn't sure of was whether he could handle seeing that honesty directed at Vince.

"Dad, this is Vincent Karvelas, the guy… I called mom, and…"

His father kept right on with his painting, as if not paying attention.

"We met… well, actually, we met because of a case I was working on—not that Vince had done anything wrong…"

Brendan's nervous gush of words halted as Vince took his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. Thomas Dean leaned down to run his thumb along the edge of the eave piece he'd just finished, then slowly straightened up. Brendan winced with him. His dad then stepped over the track laid out on the shop floor and tugged a paint-stained rag from his back pocket. At full height, Thomas Dean was still an impressive figure. Dressed in a pair of worn, flannel-lined khakis and a navy 'Shikellamy High Braves' sweatshirt over an Oxford button up, this could have been any Saturday of any month, and Brendan couldn't help but smile.

"Son, why don't you run inside and ask your mom what time she reckons dinner will be," the elder Dean said, extending his freshly wiped hand to Vincent. "And remind her there are some people who don't think much of eating fashionably late."

"Uhm, Dad, you're not—"

"Go on," his father said, shaking hands with Vince. "And make sure the kids stay in the house. Been hell trying to keep 'em away from the shop. Vincent can keep me company while I clean up here."

Brendan looked from Vince back to his father. 

Brendan's dad put a hand on his son's shoulder. "You tell your mother I said if Margaret isn't here by seven, I'm starting without her."

"No. Just a… wait. Vince is my guest, Dad—I'm not leaving him here so you ca—"

Vince put his arm around Brendan's waist and pulled him close. "It's okay, Bren," he said.

The tone of his voice made Brendan turn. It was low and intimate, and for a moment, he forgot where he was.

"Your dad wants to talk to me—I get it." 

With the look in Vincent's eyes and knowing his dad was watching them, Brendan felt stripped bare. He opened his mouth to protest once more, right before Vince steered him out the door. Brendan stood there on the other side of it staring as if he could see the face of some old ghost from the past in the grain pattern bleeding through the worn paint. His feet felt frozen to the ground. Vince hadn't even given him a chance to put up a fight. Finally, Brendan had no choice but to go and deliver his father's message.

~~~

After only five minutes of tossing a football around with his nephews, Brendan was chasing them around the house; they'd slipped past him and headed for the back yard crying "Papa, papa!" He'd just gotten the youngest boy back inside when the door to the shop opened.

Vince didn't look angry or put out. In fact, he had kind of a smile on his face. Brendan started out the door just as his dad was locking up; Vince was walking just ahead. Brendan's heart beat a hard rhythm for Vincent's sake. Jesus, what had he been thinking? He should have stood his ground with his dad.

"Everything okay?" Brendan asked, just as his father caught up to Vince.

"He doesn't know a damn thing about trains," Dean said. "Knows boats though."

"My saving grace," Vince whispered, giving Brendan a shoulder bump as they passed by. Brendan stared after them wide-eyed. Not only was Vince still in one piece, he seemed rather indifferent about the whole thing.

Brendan dutifully followed them to the house. "Dad, where's Rich?"

"You need to ask your Mom about that."

"She said to ask you."

His dad grunted, letting the screen door bang shut after him. What the hell? Was it a secret? A surprise? He looked at his watch. It wasn't like his brother-in-law to miss out on being the center of attention, especially when he could rub Brendan's nose into every bit of it. But he let it go. His brother-in-law had probably just been busy and was out doing some last minute shopping.

~~~ 

After emerging from the downstairs bathroom, smelling of spruce scented hand soap, Brendan's dad had retired to his downstairs den with a generous bourbon and ginger ale to await dinner. Brendan and Vince had been unceremoniously shooed into the family room to keep the boys corralled while Linnie wrapped a few more gifts and helped her mother with dinner. Brendan had volunteered Vincent's services in the kitchen, but his mother wouldn't hear of it, making such a fuss about him being company, and then she'd gotten this stricken look and everyone had gone quiet.

Brendan wanted to apologize to Vince as they sat and watched the boys play video games – babysitting hadn't really been in his plans for the weekend. He would have, but something in the back of his brain told him to wait – there was bound to be something else to say he was sorry for by the end of the evening.

He watched Vince now, sitting at the other end of the dining room table, eating, and smiling every time Linnie whispered something out of the side of her mouth. He was sure she was giving Vince the low down on Aunt Margaret.

Mary Margaret Dunbar-Colby-Blackman-Melcher was as tall and as impressive as Thomas Dean, though with the more delicate features of her sister, Catherine Elizabeth Dean. Margaret's hair was naturally a fiery shade of red, and both she and her sister had been well served by family genetics. What some women were willing to pay a fortune for, the sisters owned naturally, even with the incredibly attractive addition of laugh lines.

Over the years, Margaret had held a number of oddball jobs, She'd been married to four men (one of them twice), saving the best one for last, and had been devastated by his untimely death. He'd left her well off enough that she could do more than dabble with a longtime hobby. Her present occupation was free-lance photographer and she spent most of her time traveling. 

Whether Brendan's mother had told Margaret about him and Vince was a mystery. Aunt Margaret had taken Vincent's hand and introduced herself without so much as a sidewise glance, and here she sat talking and including Vince as if she'd known him for years. But that was Margaret. She treated life like opening a new book, feeling the bend of the spine in her hands, and eagerly turning to the page entitled "Chapter One."

She had seen and done so much, there was no room for shock or surprise or raining on the other guy's parade. After four husbands, she'd learned to save her outrage for those most deserving. Though Margaret had never had any children of her own, she'd always had an unusual fondness for Brendan, and the feeling was mutual. She'd cut short an assignment so she could be there for Christmas especially to see him, or so she'd said.

"Are you staying, Aunt Margaret?" Brendan asked. He already knew her answer, but asked only to get a rise out of his dad, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. Since the kids had gone back to the family room to watch television, Brendan was just hoping for some fireworks between the two – a few humorous barbs they could all chuckle over.

Thomas Dean and his sister-in-law had a strange relationship – a love-hate kind of thing. Put them in a room together and they fed off each other. Margaret hadn't wanted her sister to marry Dean and had done a few questionable things to try and prevent it, which had sealed her fate.

Personally, after watching them all these years, Brendan suspected Margaret was secretly jealous, and all the carping between them was their own warped affection for one another. They were usually civil though, unless they'd had the misfortune of being cooped up together for too long, which was why Brendan knew Margaret had booked a room at the Main Street Inn for the weekend. 

When they were kids, he and Michael and Linnie used to make a game of it, pitting Margaret against their dad in hopes one or both would let a couple of swear words slip. Then they'd sit and giggle, oblivious to the fact that both their dad and Margaret were on to them. Being there brought it all back; it felt as fresh as last week.

Linnie looked at Brendan, who glanced at his dad and just shrugged. Margaret's answer – that she did indeed have a room through the following Monday – was anti-climactic and left a little lull at the table. No one was saying it, but they all missed Michael, and Rae and the kids. Jeez, what a houseful it would have been. But they were spending this Christmas in a village on a small Pacific Rim island that had been devastated by flooding. Of course, by now everyone was used to family gatherings with nothing from Michael but a card or email or phone call.

"Lynette, dear, where is that handsome husband of yours?" Margaret asked, pouring herself more red wine and passing the bottle to Brendan. He took it and absently refilled his glass while keeping his eyes on Linnie.

Before she could answer, Brendan's mother happily volunteered that Vincent was attending law school.

"Really? My second husband was a lawyer."

"That's the one who went to prison, right, Margaret?" Thomas Dean stabbed another slice of rib roast with his fork and passed the platter down to Vincent.

Brendan grinned as Margaret didn't miss a beat. "Federal prison, yes, Tom, but don't you go giving these kids the wrong idea. He was no criminal. He got mixed up in something I believe he had no knowledge of… just got swept up with the rest of the ones who were only doing what they'd been told."

Dean nodded. "Vincent, you might have heard about that little misunderstanding," he said, pausing for emphasis. "Something called Whitewater."

"I'm sure they're both a little young to remember that, but even so that's not why I divorced him." Margaret disregarded the sotto cough from her sister and looked at Vince. "Actually, that's when I met the love of my life."

"Took you long enough." Thomas Dean sniffed and finished off his glass of wine.

Brendan's dinner began to gather in a big lump in his stomach. This wasn't exactly what he'd been after.

Margaret pushed her plate away. "Yes, well, it took a while to find a good one who wasn't already taken."

"Oh, that's why you married one of them twice?"

Margaret's smile was not quite convincing as she laid a wrinkled but strong hand atop Brendan's. She appeared to have let the cut slide right off her back. "Your Uncle Martin was the one who showed me what it really was to love someone – he was like no one else."

"What you mean is he was the only one who could make you behave… I'll give him that, God rest him."

There was a sharp intake of breath from his mother. Linnie calmly took the boys' plates and left the table. 

"Dad?" Brendan found himself just as willing to come to his aunt's defense as ever, but Dean's ire didn't make sense. Uncle Martin was the only one of Margaret's husbands he actually liked.

She patted Brendan's hand, the large silver beads on her bracelet jingling in the noiseless room. "No, your dad's absolutely right. Martin was… god damn, I miss that man every minute of every day."

Because of the awkward silence, the brightness in his aunt's eyes and the little tremble of her hand as she let go wasn't hard to miss.

Thomas Dean cleared his throat. "We all miss 'im, Peg."

When Brendan turned to face his dad, Dean's glass was full again and raised. Margaret followed with hers and then the others, except for Linnie, who was still in the kitchen. Thomas' brogue grew thick as he recited a traditional Irish blessing. Margaret said the last line along with him, and Brendan knew that was as close to an apology as anyone was going to get from Thomas Dean.

~~~

When they'd all finished dinner, Linnie had avoided him and his mother skirted his question about Rich yet again. "I think it's something to do with his job," she offered weakly and continued to clear the table. "You go in and have coffee with your dad and Margaret. Vince can help me while Linnie tends to the boys."

Vince nudged him, whispered that it was okay, then pursed his lips together for an exaggerated air kiss. The sheer audacity of it made Brendan smile.

Just as the sight that awaited him in the front room tugged at his heart. The lighted tree in front of the window, just as it was in all his memories, and his dad and Margaret sitting side by side on the piano bench. Their skirmish had been a brief one; each had ceded and departed the field… for today.

His dad was playing a passable "I'll Be Home for Christmas" while Margaret sang. She had a glass of whisky in her hand and another one sat just above them on the piano ledge. The lamplight and lights from the tree cast a golden reflection on the rubbed ebony finish, giving the whole room a welcoming feel that sucked Brendan in.

In its present incarnation, the old Storey and Clark upright had been through three less than ardent music students and more than a few holidays. It wasn't long before the music and singing drew the boys away from the TV and Linnie's attempt to settle them down. Margaret poured more whisky – even one for Brendan's mom – and the elder Dean appeared to have gotten his second wind. After a while, the music and good scotch had even left Vincent less shy about sharing his Bing Crosby.

When they'd run through his dad's repertoire of seasonal favorites, it was on to Irish pub songs, and soon Brendan glowed with a warm, rosy expectation that just maybe the weekend wouldn't turn out so bad after all. 

One more song and his sister gathered up her boys and ushered them upstairs. For a moment, while no one was paying them any mind, Vince caught Brendan's eye and Brendan followed him into the kitchen. They stood just inside the swinging door, lovers who'd stolen a few precious moments. Vince trapped Brendan's face in his hands and kissed him, soft and sweet. Vince tasted of whisky and peppermint, and Brendan kissed back, licking his way inside to taste, catching Vincent's lower lip with his teeth to pull and nibble and make Vince press him hard up against the refrigerator door. 

"Whoa," Brendan said, pushing him back an inch or two. "You're gonna get me in all kinds of trouble if you keep that up."

"Can't help it… you look so fucking adorable in there singing those old songs." 

Brendan splayed his hands out over the plaid flannel covering Vince's chest. "Can't wait to get you home," he whispered, stealing another kiss. "So much trouble." He leaned close again, trapping all the words he wanted to say in the gap between them, the sweetness of Vince's mouth still on the tip of his tongue, and wanting to fall into those eyes and never come back.

Their lips almost touched again when the kitchen door opened. In a split second, Brendan was across the room, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. It was Linnie.

"Christ, cough or something… ever hear of knocking?"

"On the kitchen door? Right." She stood there grinning.

Brendan went to the sink, took a glass from the drainer, and filled it with water. Behind him, Linnie's giggling was almost as annoying as being caught. "So, did you want something?"

"Margaret's had just enough to get maudlin, so she's leaving. Daddy called a taxi for her and she's looking for you." Linnie started to walk away, then turned back. Brendan noticed her face had softened a bit, but she was still serious when she said, "You're lucky I found you first."

God damn it! Linnie's words were like grating metal, stretching him across two lives, between the man he was and the boy he used to be. So what if someone else had seen him? He wasn't some horny teenager with roaming hands and a hard-on, afraid of being caught out by his parents. Or was he? It was kind of hard to convince himself otherwise with the way Vince wasn't looking at him. Brendan felt the anger well up. This was as good a time as any for that apology, but before he could say it, Vince left the room.

He stared at the glass in his hand, wondering why he'd even filled it. The water was tepid and tasted of misgiving. After a moment, Brendan rejoined the others. Margaret was definitely feeling no pain. She had a little extra sparkle in her eyes when Vince kissed her cheek and wished her a Merry Christmas, tittering like a schoolgirl for two seconds before grabbing Vince in a wrist-lock. "You take care of this one," she said under her breath, nodding at Brendan.

"You don't have to worry about that, ma'am," Vince replied in that black velvet voice of his, and now everyone was looking at Brendan.

~~~

It was well after eleven when the taxi pulled away from the house. Brendan followed the tail lights down Cleveland Street, where cars filled driveways and exhaust-scorched snow from earlier in the week hugged car tires and covered up house numbers painted along the curbs. It could have been a scene from a Christmas card, the way the light from the porches and street lamps bathed it all in a celestial glow.

He turned from the window as his mother was saying something about going to bed. Vince grabbed the bags and they both followed Mrs. Dean upstairs. It had been a long, strange day and Brendan was tired. He wanted nothing more than to curl up with Vince, close his eyes, and not open them again until tomorrow morning.

"The boys are in the attic room," his mother was saying. "Lyn's in her room, of course, so Vincent, you can have Michael's room. I've put on fresh sheets. You'll have to use the hall ba—"

"Uh, Mom?"

"Yes?" When she turned around, the look on her face was fragile composure, as if one wrong word would crack the façade she'd kept so beautifully in place all night long. 

"I thought…" Brendan began. She looked up at him and paled, her eyes begging him not to say what he knew he had to. Hearing his dad top the stairs, cold resolve forced its way down Brendan's spine. "Vince is staying with me… in my room."

What he could only imagine as shock stole the remaining color from his mother's face. Not the case with Thomas Dean. "Son," he began. His cheeks and throat were a burgeoning bright red, so that Brendan couldn't tell if it was the whisky or anger or mortification. "I'm sure Vincent won't mind. Your mother went to a lot of trouble with the room and it's just for the weekend."

 _Yes_ , his mother mimed.

Vince said nothing. Brendan knew he'd do it to be accommodating, but he didn't move, only placed his hand benignly on Brendan's arm so that Brendan couldn't be sure of the meaning. It didn't matter; it was just the support Brendan needed.

"I mind, Dad. You don't separate Linnie and Rich. And we talked about this… if you're going to respect—"

"This is our house," his father said. "I think the respect should come from the two of you." 

Brendan bit his tongue. He hadn't wanted it to be like this, and he'd give anything not to hear that thread of weariness in his father's voice.

"Besides, Lynette and Richard are married," Dean said with more force as he clutched protectively at his wife's shoulders. As if, Brendan thought, he needed to shield her from some unpleasantness.

They'd never change. They'd never really accept him or Vince. They'd be nice and polite because that's who they were, but they were never going to fully respect his choices. That he chose a man instead of a "good woman". That he chose a dangerous job over a safe Pleasant Valley Sunday existence. It had always been that way with them. Nod and encourage even while trying to shove _their_ choices down his throat.

The pressure began to build between Brendan's temples. All of sudden, Michael's voice filled his head, rearing up from humming just below the surface most of the day - _They can't push me, so they push you… don't let them._ Brendan swallowed hard to clear his ears and took a step forward. 

"I won't let you treat me like a kid anymore." He grabbed Vincent's hand, laced their fingers together, and held it up to his parents. "This is who I am. You can't sit back and hope I'll change my mind – I won't. And you—there's nothing you can do to _fix_ me. There's nothing wrong with me, and if that's not acceptable, I'm sure there's room at the Inn, Vince and I will—"

The door to Lynette's room opened.

"Sir, I understand your feelings," Vince interjected. His tone was calm, but Brendan could hear the strength there, too. "And I'll respect them, but I'm sure you realize marriage isn't an option for us. If it were—"

A flush rose across Brendan's chest and shoulders at the flash in his father's eyes.

"Marriage is a sacred union, consecrated by the Church and reserved for a man and a—"

"Daddy, stop it…" Linnie stepped into the fray between her parents and Brendan. "You're going to wake the boys, and God only knows when I'd get them back to sleep. I've still got things to put out and now is really not the time for this discussion."

"That is exactly why we need to discuss it," her mother replied. "We have children in this house. How do you think this will look to them?"

"The last time I checked, Mother, those were _my_ children. They're three and five – the only opinions they have are the ones we feed them. Come morning, they won't care if Vincent is a three-headed alien. And, frankly, I'm not worried how it will look to them to see two people happy with each other."

Brendan's eyes were fixed on Linnie. He recognized that iron resolve, but not the catch in her voice.

"Give Brendan some credit," she continued. "I don't think he'd have sex in your house just to prove a point, or to defend his orientation, or even to piss you off. Jesus Christ, they just want to sleep in the same room together."

"Don't you swear in front of your mother," her father demanded.

Linnie blew out an exasperated breath. "I'm sorry. My point is… Brendan's right. You can't pick which parts of his being gay you approve of or agree with. You accept him and love him just the same or you don't."

Brendan blinked at his sister. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. When Linnie turned to him and said, "Go to bed," he nodded dumbly and did as he was told. 

He held the door for Vince, who carried their bags inside. Brendan followed him in, listening to the last clipped words of the discussion in the hallway, still a bit stunned. He practically ran him over as Vince came to a stop in the middle of the room. 

"Jesus, Brendan, twin beds? All that excitement over twin beds?"

But Brendan wasn't really listening. The twisting in his gut could no longer be ignored. "Something's really wrong," he said absently, as if he were speaking only the pale blue walls.

"I know, right? We won't even be sleeping in the same bed."

Brendan returned to the door and bent his ear to the crack; all was quiet. "I'll be right back," he said, without even a look back at Vince.

He knocked softly at Linnie's door, but didn't wait for her to answer. She didn't look very surprised to see him. 

"Okay," he said, shutting the door behind him. "Who are you and what have you done with my sister?" 

She closed the distance between them, then put her arms around him, hiding her face in his shoulder. He was slow to return the embrace, unsure and a little shaken. Linnie shook in his arms, a deep shudder followed by a long, stuttered breath.

"Seriously," he said. "If you were a saboteur or a terrorist, I would have made you in five minutes."

She shook again, this time with soft laughter. "Should I be even more worried about national security, now?" Linnie drew back and looked at him. Her forced smile wasn't enough to deflect the smoky track of a single tear she thought she'd brushed away. "And I'm worse than a terrorist, I'm your sister."

"Where's Richard?" Brendan asked, through with playing around.

She seemed to steel herself, taking another big breath before she could answer. She always did that to keep her chin from wibbling, even when she was angry. She was usually successful; Brendan had only seen it two or three times in his entire life.

"He's not here. He won't be here."

Brendan's gaze floated past his sister's face to find the pale yellow luggage peeking out from beneath the bed, then on to the desk by the window loaded down with papers and a laptop. Ding-ding-ding. More items than necessary for a holiday weekend. He suddenly felt sick that he hadn't put things together sooner.

"Why didn't I know about this?" He walked his sister back over to the bed.

Odd memories flooded him as soon as they sat down – secret pranks against their older brother and other plots and pacts hatched from that very spot. So long ago, but as vivid to Brendan as the day before yesterday. And so different trying to connect that confident, bossy Linnie with the fragile, halting woman sitting next to him.

"The boys don't know… everything. Right now, they think their dad is out of town for his job. I asked Mom and Daddy not to say anything because Michael has enough to worry about and you… you're finally happy." She laid her hand on his cheek. "They'll come around, you know," she said, nodding toward the door.

"Sure, uh, thanks by the way." He still had the feeling he was in some alternate universe.

"Just give them some time. Vincent seems like such a great guy. Once they get to know him a little better… He's special, Bree; I see it in your eyes."

Some alternate universe where bratty, social climbing, know-it-all sisters suddenly turned into pretty pink princesses and spread latent pixie dust over everything. "Linnie, I didn't come in here to talk about me."

"I know. At first, I thought you'd come to gloat."

"What?"

She got up from the bed and walked over to the desk, her hands nervously shuffling papers. "That you'd figured out your _perfect_ sister's _perfect_ fairy tale marriage is in the toilet – that she's a wreck and doesn't have one fucking clue what she's doing or how she's going to make it."

The words stung. Fairy tale was exactly how Brendan once described their life. As for gloating, when they were kids, Linnie had always had something to prove because she was the girl and he because he was the youngest. For years, his identity had been Michael's kid brother, Linnie's plaything, or the baby of the family. Apparently, he now had something he could lord over her. 

He listened to the words inside his head, looked at his sister, and tried to make sense of that still-gnawing feeling. Had he come back home looking for a fight? The truth of it was, he'd come prepared to spend the entire long weekend defending himself and apologizing to Vince for his insensitive family. Brendan was sure it had shown in his eyes, just as it had in Linnie's – at first. It seemed some things never changed. Maybe it was time.

He got up and went over to where she was standing. "Linnie, I came here with a big chip on my shoulder… I never—"

She pressed her fingers to his lips and shook her head, as if she didn't want him to say it.

"I never told you this," she said after a moment. "When I found out you had applied to the FBI, I cried. Locked myself in my room and cried my eyes out because I just knew that one day I'd have to bury my baby brother. I secretly hoped you'd change your mind… prayed you'd fail the entrance exam, anything. That's when I realized you weren't the baby anymore and that I hadn't been afraid for you as much as I'd been jealous. You'd have something just for you… that I could no more control your life than I could the weather."

Brendan stared at her. He tried to catch his breath against the dull, empty feeling in his chest. How many times had he secretly wished Rich would lose that great job or that some benign calamity would befall them for the very same reason. Fuck, talk about dysfunctional.

"Oh, Jesus, Brendan, I can't even control my own life."

He held and shushed her. "You're going to be fine. The boys are going to be fine – they have you. If there's anyone who can take the reins here, Linnie, it's you." He really meant what he was saying, and hoped that was getting through. "You've always known exactly what you want and where you're going and you've always had a plan. This is no different."

She pulled back, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, but Brendan knew she'd rupture something before letting them fall. Christ, just as long as he didn't spill his first.

"Oh, yeah," she huffed. "On paper, I'm fucking awesome… in real life, not so much." She turned away and picked up a large shopping bag sitting on the floor in front of the closet. "Will you take these down for me? Not sure I want to face either one of the parental units right now."

Brendan took the bag. "Oh, no, you'd rather I fall on the sword."

"You always were so noble." When she smiled, he could see some of the bratty sister who could be on his side one minute and totally punking him the next – the sister who had just admitted she needed him in some weird brother-sister, let's not really discuss it way. Something he would have known had he not been so set on his own agenda. 

"So, what do Mom and Dad think about all this?"

"Oh, you know, they want to kill Rich. Mom would like to take the garden pruner to him first, but that's just kneejerk from them; it's to be expected." She turned away and went to the window. "The sad truth is there _are_ two sides to every story… I'm sure I have some fault in this mess."

Brendan looked past her out of the window. It had begun to snow – tiny, tight flakes from the fist of some giant Scrooge. He heard her sniff and then clear her throat.

"Go on," she said. "You've got somebody waiting for you, remember?"

He got to the door and stopped. "You said something about Michael before… what's up?"

Linnie sighed. "Rae's pregnant again." She didn't turn around, just stood there watching the snow. There was nothing more to say. 

Brendan let the door snick quietly behind him. He glanced at the door to his room as he went past. He didn't give a shit if they slept on the floor; all he cared about was having Vince's warm, strong body next to him. Tonight, nothing else mattered. 

The house was quiet as he made his way down the stairs. Everything still smelled of mincemeat and cinnamon and the last of the wood smoke from the fireplace. When he stepped into the front room, memories rushed him so swiftly it caught his breath, like pictures falling together in his mind. The new desk in the corner for Linnie's oldest, wrapped presents, the fake-snow covered village set up beneath the tree with the tracks and train station. It could have been any Christmas years ago. So many years ago.

"If you're gonna stand there, at least make yourself useful and hand me those sections of track there."

Brendan sighed with relief at the not-so-veiled note of sarcasm in his father's voice. It was his dad's way of calling a truce. 

"I brought Linnie's things down for her." He set the bag containing the boys' stockings and a few more snowmen-covered packages on the sofa and picked up the sections of track. "She told me about Rich."

His dad grunted and took the track from him without a word, then set about finishing the oval around the base of the tree. The little train set had been a fixture as far back as Brendan could remember. His dad could probably set it up blindfolded – hell, _he_ could probably set it up blindfolded.

"Dad, listen… if I'd known this other shit was going on, I wouldn't have asked to bring Vince along – not this time. I just wish someone had told me – you guys don't need to protect me anymore. You know that, right?"

Thomas Dean kept on working. Brendan wasn't surprised. If you looked up "dogged," you'd see that same picture of his dad. His father had probably gotten up with the sun, yet he was still going.

"Dad? You know I didn't mean any dis—"

"Just give us some time, son. It's nothing against you or Vincent. He seems like a nice and responsible young man, it's just that…" His dad stood there, the last pieces of unused track clutched in his hand and looking like a toy that had finally wound down.

Brendan reached over and put his arm around Thomas Dean's shoulder. That big, strong shoulder that felt like it could still hold the weight of the world. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

"Merry Christmas, Brendan." His father leaned in and rested his head against Brendan's for just a moment. It felt both awkward and right at the same time, with just enough non-in-Kansas-anymore reality to make Brendan let go first.

When he reached for the bag on the couch, his dad protested. He'd take care of it, he said, and suggested Brendan go to bed. Brendan had reached the foot of the stairs when the house phone rang; he looked over at his dad as it rang again.

"You gonna get that or let it ring until it wakes the whole house? Probably Michael… you talk to him."

Brendan snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Well, well, if it isn't the Prodigal."

"Hey – you don't know how close that is. Don't you guys have clocks wherever the hell you are?"

"It's already Christmas here. I had to walk down to the field office to use the sat phone – the sun'll be down by the time I get back home." The satellite phone had a weird two to three second delay that made Brendan feel he was talking to a machine. "So, I hear it's a big weekend for you."

"You talked to Mom," Brendan said.

"Lyn, actually." Michael's voice had that sense of knowing. "How're they treating you and…"

"His name is Vincent Karvelas. What can I say – at least I didn't show up with unrealistic expectations."

"Give 'em time, bro. And for the record, I think it's great – just wondering why you thought you couldn't tell me."

Despite their six year age difference, and looking over the "tag along" little brother syndrome, he and Michael had always been good friends, even confidants in some ways, so Michael's question made him think. "Did I need to?" 

"Not really," came Michael's reply after a long pause. "Hey, did Aunt Margaret show up? What'd I miss?"

Brendan grinned into the phone and shot a glance into the family room. "She and dad got piss drunk and ended up singing all night."

"Shit, I hope somebody had the good sense to have a camcorder or camera phone handy."

"Believe it or not, we were having too much fun to think about blackmail material."

"You're slipping, kid. Sounds like a memorable Christmas at that."

Brendan held the phone close. He missed his brother; talking to Michael was just what he needed. "So, how is everyone there? Congrats are in order I hear."

His brother's deep bass laugh got lost in some static. "…you believe it? Wouldn't it be a pisser if it was twins again?"

It struck Brendan what a contrast there was between his siblings. Michael was more like Margaret – maintaining an even strain. Linnie was like their mom, the forceful but hand wringing type. He figured he fell somewhere in the middle, along with a more than healthy dose of his father's pragmatism. 

"Why not?" Brendan said. "You're starting your own hockey team, right? The more the merrier…" There was another spate of static before Michael was back on the line.

"…gotta ring off here… tell Mom we're all doing great… everyone our love and have a Merry Christmas. We'll try to get in touch again in the new year. Great to talk to you, Brendan."

The line went dead before Brendan had a chance to say good-bye. He closed his eyes and called up his brother's face. Not once in all these years had they gotten a postcard, email, or photo where Michael wasn't smiling.

"'Night, Dad," Brendan called before climbing the stairs. That's what he'd do, he thought. Good or bad, the rest of the weekend he was going to smile… for Michael.

~~~ 

Brendan closed his bedroom door, metaphorically shutting out the day and everything else that wasn't Vince. Vince was still awake, but he didn't look up when Brendan came in. He was stretched out on one of the beds in his underwear and his best broken in t-shirt, thumbing through an old Hardy Boys mystery. God, his mother kept everything.

"Jesus," Brendan moaned, than asked, "You okay?" 

Vince turned another page before he looked up, dark bangs falling loose over his forehead. "Isn't it crazy how this stuff grabs you… it must be fifteen years since I read one of these and I'm already on chapter four."

Brendan leaned against the door and tried to make his voice sound sexy. "I could be mistaken, but I don't think you answered my question."

"What do you want me to say, Bren?" Vince let the book fall to his side, holding his place with a finger. "I've been, like, invisible all day. Everyone on their best behavior. Not because I'm company, or your lover, or whatever… but so they wouldn't have to confront me, deal with me, and by association, deal with you."

"But—what about you and Dad—you—"

"We literally talked about trains, Brendan, then what kind of jobs I've held, and then my boat. He could have been talking with someone in line at the Safeway."

Brendan didn't say anything, just walked over the bed that held their bags and sat down. He could have used the 'ol "they act that way to everyone," but he couldn't make the lie leave his lips. They'd never treated his college buddies like this and they'd treated Suzanne like royalty from the first time Brendan had introduced them. Michael had never met Suzanne, but he was the only one to tell Brendan to do "what's best for you."

"At that point," Vince continued. "I wouldn't have minded if he wanted to know how much money I had or what my intentions were – at least that would have something to do with us. Your Aunt Margaret is the only one who acted normal around me – and maybe your sister."

"I'm sorry, but, you know, I did warn you it wasn't going to be easy."

"And I didn't expect it to be." Vince shook his head slightly. "The worst was watching you—the way they treated you and seeing you revert back to good little Brendan." Vince pointed to the door. "That—out there? Finally. That's the Brendan Dean I know."

"This was a mistake," Brendan said, digging in his bag for the sweat pants he wore to bed, trying not to let Vincent's words take hold. "I shouldn't have brought you—this weekend, of all times."

"I'm not complaining, Bren, I'm not. I'm just answering your question. I could be more specific, but…"

Brendan turned, his jaw set. But… why use a cannon ball when a well-placed dagger will do the trick. He snagged his shaving kit and went into the tiny adjoining bathroom to get ready for bed. Brushing his teeth, he thought how really lucky he and Vince had been since getting together – living in a city and having friends that accepted them. Sure, there'd been some ugly confrontations here and there, and their answer had always been to deal with it then let it go. But this wasn't taking flack from some asshole on the street; this was personal. This was family.

He rinsed his teeth and left his stuff there on the vanity top beside Vincent's things. There was barely enough room to turn around, but he made the rest of his preparations quick. He had waited all day for this and he'd be damned if he was going to vie with hurt feelings and a couple of teenaged sleuths for Vincent's attention. He flipped off the bathroom light and tossed his clothes onto his old desk before going around the bed, nudging Vince over and plucking the book from his hand. 

"Too bad, you'll have to find out the secret of the Witchmaster's key another time," Brendan said, grinning as he dropped the book on the floor. 

"You didn't even mark my place," Vince whined, though he was grinning, too.

"You were on chapter four." Brendan pulled the covers up. "We have another long-ass day tomorrow. You can count on getting up around six—if the noise doesn't wake you, the smell of breakfast will. And they'll send Linnie up to get us, because neither one of my parents will—"

Vince leaned down and brushed his lips over Brendan's cheek. "You don't have to do that," he whispered. "If you want me to lie here and hold you, you just have to say so."

Brendan stared across the room, looking but not really seeing the items on the bookshelf. "I wanted this to be a good time for you, a real family holiday. I really cocked things up—especially with trying to…" He waved his hand toward the door.

"Hey, you handled yourself just right," Vince said. "They'll respect you for that."

"Maybe. And you were just going to keep quiet, weren't you?"

"Did you want me to bust you in front of your family for acting like an eight-year-old? That was something you needed to see for yourself."

"You sound like Michael. He always told me I should be my own man... but it was so easy for him."

Vince stroked Brendan's bare shoulder. "I'm looking forward to meeting this brother of yours."

Brendan seemed on the verge of a full-body shiver under the soft pads of Vincent's fingers. He closed his eyes and let it overtake him.

"And unless I miss my guess," Vince said softly. "Seems everyone's finding out there are worse things than having a gay son or a gay brother. I take it I won't be meeting Mr. Wonderful Jerkface?"

There were a lot of things about Vincent that Brendan liked, some he loved – the way Vince knew him, the way he never needed to draw Vince a picture. It was this uncanny thing they developed right from the very beginning. Sometimes it was downright scary.

"On top of everything else, Michael and his wife are pregnant again," Brendan said. "Hell, they're barely making it with the four kids they have now."

"Are they happy?"

"Yeah, I think so. At least, Michael sounded happy."

"Trust me, Bren, that's all that really matters."

Brendan ran his fingers idly across Vince's bare thigh. "What about you, your aunt and uncle. What do you think they would say—I mean, we're not exactly… orthodox?"

"I hope they'd be pleased that I was a happy and well-adjusted young man – that's how they raised me. I never discussed my sexuality with them – they would have loved you, though."

Brendan turned and met Vince's gaze. The _because I do_ was unspoken, though it was right there in eyes that weren't as green as his.

"And it's not the end of the world if your parents don't like me."

"Well, it's important to me. I want them to like you… because…"

"Once they respect you and your choices, the rest will fall into place."

Brendan nodded and turned back onto his side, inviting Vince to spoon up behind him. 

"Before, when you were talking to my dad, he interrupted you."

"Oh, when was that…" 

Brendan threw a playful elbow and connected. "What were you going to say?" he asked, then immediately wished he hadn't. His heart began to pound waiting for Vince's answer. It was a strange rhythm, like a foreign body inside him; it barely felt a part of him.

Vince scooted even closer and wound his arm around Brendan. "Only that if marriage _was_ an option, it might be something we'd consider… someday, in the future."

Brendan had to remind himself to breathe as Vince jostled him.

"Aw, c'mon… Agent Brendan Karvelas… 's got a nice ring to it, don't you think? Just rolls off the tongue."

Brendan laughed. It felt good. Vince felt good. "Dude, hell no, I am not taking your name."

"You could use a hyphen, Brendan Dean _hyphen_ Karvelas."

They both began to snicker as Brendan felt Vince's hand move under his ribs.

"Don't you even think about it," he said, even as Vince started to tickle him.

"You'll look stunning in white… oh, wait…"

"Stop it, Vince… I swear to god." Brendan wriggled and flailed trying to make Vince stop, trying to stay on the bed, and trying his best to keep quiet. "If you value your junk, I'm giving you fair warning."

Vince shifted his weight and stopped tickling; he held Brendan's arm behind his back in a loose grip. Brendan knew it was in a vulnerable position, and one he could get out of easily, but he didn't want to. He'd spent all day watching Vince, missing his touch. 

Vince bent down close; Brendan shivered as the words danced over the shell of his ear. "You value my junk, and don't think I don't know it, Agent Dean-Karvelas." Vince released his hold and slid his hand up to Brendan's shoulder.

Brendan reared his head, offering his neck to Vince's mouth, while feeling for just the right spot with his foot. When he found it, he planted and pushed hard. Vince tumbled off the bed, but at the last minute, grabbed and pulled so that Brendan and most of the covers ended up following.

After wrestling around, each one going for the dominant position, Brendan threw a leg over Vince's hip and held him still. That was way too easy, he thought.

"Hey," Vince said, looking up at Brendan. "Let's make a blanket fort between the beds and sleep on the floor.

God, that was tempting. Looking at Vince, with that crazy t-shirt twisted around him, exposing a lickable swath of bare skin, those playful eyes, and half-hard dick, Brendan wanted to jump him right then and there. It only half mattered that this was the room he'd grown up in, with the desk his dad built in one corner and a bookshelf full of friggin' Hardy Boys in another. Then he thought of Linnie coming to his rescue, and…

"No, you get in that bed over there before you force me to do something that may scar me for the rest of my life."

Vince laughed. He got up and helped Brendan up. The snowy light from the windows billowed around them like a blue cloud as Vince reached up to cup Brendan's chin.

"Not helping," Brendan mumbled between warm, not-in-any-hurry kisses. 

Staring up at their blanket ceiling, Brendan lay on his back, Vince's arm around him and their feet tangled up together. He listened as Vince's breath grew measured and even. Somehow, as Brendan's eyelids grew heavier and his muscles relaxed under the comforter and trapped body heat, it didn't feel strange having Vince here in his old room, having Vince here with his family.

He could almost hear the snow falling outside, marked by the tick, tick of the old grandfather clock on the landing. In his mind, he stirred up images from an old Christmas rhyme and applied them to the present. Grinning, he turned his head, a cool draft from underneath the beds glancing off his cheek. He stared at the man beside him, at the dark hair, the dark lashes resting on golden cheeks, and lush lips that tasted like sin and salvation at the same time. This was the rightest thing he knew. This was what was best for him.

Nudging Vince with his hip, he said, "You know, I think Vincent Karvelas Dean sounds much better."

As if signaling agreement, deep, muted bongs from the clock began to sound, ringing the day to an end.

Vince chuckled quietly beside him. He took Brendan's hand, threaded their fingers together, and snuffled into the crook of Brendan's neck. "Merry Christmas, babe."

Smile, Brendan thought as the last of the chimes sounded. Just smile. He had two days left, maybe he could still make good on that vow. 

"Merry Christmas, Vince."

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: My intrepid beta, editor, and friend, mischief5


End file.
